


One Love

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ABO, Alpha Harry, Alright alright alright I made some edits recently, Canon Compliant, Darkness, HSLOT, Harry Styles Live On Tour, I’m thinking about their abo smut and might write it someday., Japan, M/M, Omega Louis, Pining, ahaha it was written before Harry spent a shitload of time in Tokyo in 2019, and intense feelings, but it is full of yearning, but it’s still, louis deserves more and now he has more, lyrical, so readers beware hahaha, the fic was too short when it was written, this fic is short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: HSLOT Japan 2018. Harry and Louis are history, but Harry can’t stop chasing him in the wind.





	One Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge that a group of us are participating in for the prompt "Wind". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wind/works), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works) or find the masterpost for this year’s challenge [here](https://wordplayfics.tumblr.com/post/175608230403/wordplay-2018-every-week-a-prompt-is-chosen-using).

Out of the blue, in the most unlikely places, Harry will imagine he can still scent him.

In a white tee and a headscarf, Harry will be walking incognito through a flea market in Bangkok, drinking a 5-Baht bottle of Coke. Or he’ll be strolling around Sydney’s neighborhoods, eating an ice cream at a farmers market. Or, after a swim in Cologne, clinging to the side of the hotel pool, chlorine on his face and in his hair.

Diversion, distraction, dismissal. That’s his game. Harry can’t help his biology, but he can control his mind, he thinks. He can force himself to forget. 

Whenever it happens, though, it takes him by surprise. He’ll whip his head around, trying to follow the scent, but it’s gone like that, like magic.

He’s Harry Styles Live On Tour, but also just another alpha, bumbling around the world with an entourage. Strangers— the locals— sense his alpha agitation, that innate, muted aggressiveness, and then look right past him. Alpha seek what they seek; people learn to move aside. 

One continent merges into the next. Gifts and notes are pressed into his hands, or phone cases to be signed, or books and CDs to be doodled on. Is it English that he’s writing, or merely incoherent ribbons of ink? Does it even matter? They oooh and aaahh no matter what he writes. He keeps scribbling. 

_Alpha Styles. All the love._

He tumbles into hotel rooms at 3 AM. Jeff makes sure the room doors are closed and secured. There’s always a mini bar. Weed, if he wants. Blow, sometimes. It makes the jet lag bearable. He doesn’t overdo it. He knows his limits. He’s tested them enough over the years. 

One night, he drunk-pulls up old photos on his mobile— saved from a few years ago and auto-synced to the new phone. He goes through four or five phones a year— too many to count. There are only a few photos of the old band, but there he is, and there they are. Harry and Louis. Their earnest smiles pull at him.

He lines up the miniature bottles of Absolut and Johnny Walker and Patron, stares at the screen, lights up a pre-rolled and opens a bag of salt water taffy from— Melbourne? He can’t remember; they got stuffed in his luggage anyway. Tossing one in his mouth, he feels the sugar amping up the high. The image blurs, the joint stinks up the room.

Then, like smoke from a genie’s bottle, there he is.

Harry tugs off his trousers and lies there in his shirt and pants, smoking and drinking. The finished bottles are lined up on the carpet next to the nightstand, like brave toy soldiers, his liquid courage. He sucks up the air, and even though he knows it’s as real as the fairy lights over there in the corner, he can smell him. Louis’ scent. He can taste him in his mouth, can feel his slick at his fingertips, where it used to stain through his clothes. He can feel the way they used to fit— with a purpose, like his knot was built for him, and for him only. It felt like more than happiness. It felt like an answered prayer. 

Harry pulls his pants down to his thighs and starts to touch himself. The scent is elusive, there and gone again. Maybe it’s the weed, or the liquors working on him. Louis is just out of range. Harry knows there’s no one there. There will never be anyone there. Not anymore. Never again. 

His cock becomes slick with need, the tender skin of his knot swelling into a blossom, exquisitely sensitive, almost painful. A thumb swirls around the engorgement. He brings the phone closer to study the angular line of Louis’ jaw, and can almost taste the salt of his sweat as he bites into Louis’ shoulder, anchoring him in place. He can feel the soft resistance of Louis' skin, yearning to press back against him. He hears Louis’ soft moans begging him to stop, not to stop, to hurt him, to fuck him deep and good. He feels the muscularity of their bodies sliding against each other as Louis’ strong, raw, pungent scent floods his nostrils. In a few strokes, Harry brings himself to climax, his come thickly shooting onto the bed. He lies there panting, his knot engorged like a hammer without a purpose, a moan trapped in his throat, his air taken away. Then he wipes himself off with the sheets, finishes the joint and the last bottle of vodka, and rolls to the other side of the bed to fade into sleep.

The next day, he’s in Asakusa, amongst ladies in their silk kimonos and the anime cosplay kids. Jeff takes him and his current bandmates to a fancy sushi place. The entire restaurant is closed for lunch, just for them. He eats freshly prepared uni, which reminds him of oral sex, the way it goes down his throat. He coughs roughly, thinking about it. His mates think he’s having them on. 

After the concert, he wanders around the Ginza, alone. A department store is selling Belgian waffles in a tiny shop on the street floor, the queue going out the door. The aroma of butter and syrup draws him closer.

He stands there, tall Westerner in a dark jumper and jeans, watching the thinning crowd. As soon as the patrons receive their waffles in thin paper envelopes, their attention is devoted to that hot, crispy, fragrant square, oblivious to the neon lights and stars above them.

Harry buys a waffle, even though he isn’t really hungry, and keeps walking down the long city blocks. The concert was good tonight. It’s always good in Tokyo, the audience completely respectful of their artists. As usual, there are fans from around the world congregated at the barricades, the people he always sees. Sometimes they yell things they want to do to him, _not-nice_ things, _lewd_ things. They want his knot. They want his cream. _Alpha Styles! Daddy, fill me up! I’m having your baby! I’ll be your omega, please, please squirt me up! Spill your spunk, fuck my face, fuck my ass, daddy. Want your baby. Want your seed. Want you wet on my motherfucking pussy._

Their high-pitched screams. Their angry faces. 

Sometimes, missing love so acutely, he wants to let them, wants to yell, _Meet me after the concert. Come around the back. We’ll have a good time._

He doesn’t. He’s the alpha for only one, someone who doesn’t want him anymore. The only one he’s ever mated with. The only one he’s ever loved.

He sits down on a curb and pulls apart the waffle, separating it into thin crumbles and pieces. Despite the late hour, high school kids are strolling by, baby punks, their hair spiked and bracelets studded, lips pierced through, socks with gaping holes. They drag skateboards shyly behind them. Then a couple dressed in mismatching plaid, cyberpunk dandies walking their dog with its fur dyed green, strolls slowly by. The green dog sniffs his Vans— rubber soles and sinewy feet, an homage to Lou. The dog gives a gruff sneeze.

“I know,” Harry says, nodding. “I miss him too." His fingers snag in his hair. "Everything here reminds me of him.”

The dog wags his tail but is pulled away. Soon, he’s sniffing another pair of shoes.

The dog smells like dog, with traces of cigarette smoke and dirt. Ginza smells like rubber and food and asphalt. Sour, tarry, sugary and plasticky. As the dog runs off, the wind picks up and whips Harry’s hair into his eyes. He’s brushing it off when the air molecules gather to form unmistakably, distinctly the imprint of Louis’ scent. It’s as if Louis were in his face, grabbing his jaws with both hands and breathing down on him.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. “I can’t anymore, Lou. Stop it. You cut me lose, so let go. I can’t.”

He stands and turns on his ankles like a wild thing, chasing his own tail, dropping the rest of whatever’s left in his hands. His nose percolates in the air, sucking in lungfuls and trying to calculate a direction. The scent is ambiguous but strong, dialing through him relentlessly, layer by layer, vein by dilated vein. It’s the scent of an omega in heat— his omega. The one bonded to him when they were 16 and 18. The one who was meant to stay.

“Fuck!”

He tears at his hair in frenzy. People on the street can hear him, and some can smell him as well, his pulsing sexual energy, the slightly panicked desperation. They give him wide berth. Harry starts walking down the street, stopping to check once in a while, turning and twisting to follow what he must, despite everything in his head telling him No. Turn back, his better senses say. Don’t follow it. Go home.

But his heart says Go. Chase. Run. 

Go find him. 

His feet take him into a coffee shop. The smell is almost overwhelming, puddling like thick clouds. It’s him, it’s Louis. He’s come to find him, Harry is sure of it. He can’t even think of what to say. _Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt— why are you here?_ His alpha instincts kick reflexively into overdrive for the only omega he’s been programmed to protect.

He tracks the scent to a slim figure sitting in a tall-backed booth, the familiarity of the smell almost smothering him. Staring at his back, Harry feels uncontrollably drawn, a meteor falling into a moon. He has to stop himself from swearing out loud. His entire body is poised to possess his omega, his love, his one, to shield and grasp and hold forever. He can’t believe his Louis is actually here.

Harry slides in next to him. His hands tremble uncontrollably. It’s been three months since they last saw each other. He stares at the table in front of him, unable to meet his eyes.

“Louis,” he says. “How— ”

Then, he stops. There’s something else underneath, an entirely different scent. It’s unfamiliar, old, spicy. Has Louis mated with— he can’t have. No. Harry can’t bring himself to think it. He wants to bury his face for a proper sniff, but decorum stops him. It can’t be. He was so certain. For a few seconds, he still wants to be certain, to believe. Slowly, he turns and stares at the man straight in the face.

“Can I help you?” the man asks. He’s in his mid-forties, maybe, a Westerner with a brown, combed down fringe. His eyes open in mild surprise. He’s wearing a jacket that belonged to Louis, or is extremely familiar.

Harry quickly pushes himself up, away from the table.

“No, sorry.” Harry’s mouth hangs open. “I thought you were— sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair, brows furrowed. “I’ve made a mistake.”

”It’s alright,” he says. “Thought I was someone else?” 

He has scented Harry’s alphaness. 

Harry doesn’t care. He glares at the man, as if he were personally responsible. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah?”

“Where did you get that jacket?” Harry asks. “I need to know. I thought you were a friend of mine.”

”This jacket?” He palmed the sleeve. “I take it you’re looking for someone special.” 

Harry cast his eyes away. The man stares for a moment. The alpha in front of him is obviously in distress. Hard and soft and in pain. 

“Funny you should ask.” The man’s lips curl in embarrassment. “It was left in the back of a taxi that I took yesterday. I thought it was a nice jacket.”

“So you just kept it?” Harry unconsciously raises his voice. “Unbeliev— Where did you take the taxi?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Tokyo somewhere? Harajuku? Roppongi maybe. Sorry, man. I don’t remember.”

Harry stares, trying to mentally squeeze the information out of him. Then it dawns on him. If Louis is in Tokyo, surely he would know about Harry’s concert. But he hasn’t contacted him. The concert was done, and Louis was nowhere near. The arena where Harry performed was enormous; Harry couldn’t have picked out a scent amongst the thousands of others. There was no way to tell whether Louis attended the concert tonight.

The key thing is, Louis hadn’t tried to find Harry. If he is in Tokyo, he couldn’t have cared less about him. Tokyo is his city too. Louis loves— loved, Harry corrects himself— Tokyo. Loved, when they were together.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, turning around. He still hasn’t been able to get the fucking scent out of his mind. It envelopes him like a disease. He wants to rip the jacket off and take it with him— he misses it that much. That isn’t a solution either, and he knows it’s self-destructive. It just... fucking useless. He wants to go back to the hotel and get blitzed, burn himself away, incinerate his cursed alpha senses. Rip them all apart. Make it bleed. Get fucked, get high. Forget. 

His wake-up call is at 8 AM. He has to go. Come on, Styles. Move. Walk. 

“Hey, I hope you find your friend!” the man shouts behind him.

Harry’s taxi drops him off in front of his hotel. It is deserted, just a few street lamps casting a phalanx of blue down below. His feet feel unreal, supporting his lanky frame, as he stares at one shoe clunking after the other, taking him closer to the building. The scene look like a drawing out of a graphic novel, with criss-crossing, heavy lines of ink.

Then, all at once, Harry doesn’t even have to smell him. He’s there. Stronger than any smell is his unforgettable silhouette, his slinky fringe, the familiar curve of his body, his slightly drooped shoulder when he’s unsure. Hands tucked in pockets. Eyelashes that fan out to cast a smoky shadow.

Harry abruptly stops, feeling his insides plummet. The distance between them stretches out like a mirage in a fucking desert. 

“Are you okay?” Harry calls out, the way he’s called out for eight years. The way he’ll never stop calling, because part of him belongs there, inside that body, inside that heart. Even long after he will have retired, and lost his good looks, and become a grandfather who needs looking after himself, he will call out, will fling his bland question into the universe, seeking Louis in the darkness where he still might be, hoping, yearning, calling him back to where he belongs. 

_Are you okay. Are you okay._

Louis steps out into the light. He’s solid and fit, but also flimsy like a paper doll, and so slight that he could vanish like lightning. 

“Tried t’ call you."

His scent vibrates in Harry's throat, drawing him inexorably forward. Harry walks toward him until they’re face to face, inches apart. The scent is burying him alive. 

“Yeah,” Harry starts. “I just got a new ph— ”

Before Harry can finish, Louis pulls his neck down and stops him with a kiss. He tastes of the cold and fragrant air, of cherry blossoms, of the wide blue sky. His lips feel like they always feel, like a lock to Harry’s key, a clue to the puzzle, soft and sweet and right. He is a shattered star slowly condensing back together.

Their rhythm falls right into place. Harry’s lips slide into Louis’ with a familiar pressure, their scents intermingling to make something that feels like home. Harry knows he shouldn’t hope, but he is completed. Louis is everything he wants. He can’t help opening his mouth and tasting Louis, swallowing his scent to make him a part of his body again. Louis licks inside, flicking at Harry’s teeth the way he likes it, teasing him just before they make love. Harry tastes his warmth, his cigarettes, the heady softness of his cologne. Harry shudders, uncertain whether to pull away. His entire body wants to press against Louis, to feel as one. But he doesn’t trust himself or Louis. He can’t do this again. 

“Should I stay?” Louis says into his mouth, tentative and expectant. 

Harry can’t stop his hands from trembling. He wants to check Louis from head to toe, to make sure. To make sure what? Does Louis even belong to him anymore? There were so many words, words unspoken but also words they can’t take back. They spread out like grains of sand in a vast, bleak desert. Yet every cell in his body says _Yes. Yes. Yes._ His thumb traces over the dip in Louis’ cheek, just below the sharp cheekbones. The famously chiseled profile.

Louis takes his hand.

“Harry?” Louis is waiting, his voice dark and small. “I’ll leave if you want. Just tell me to go.” 

Harry swallows, his eyes unfocused, the pavement shimmering in front of them. “You’ve never been the first one to break." He isn’t accusing, but it comes out that way.

Harry wants, he fears, he longs for it too much. Louis is in him, irrevocably, senselessly. His scent, his face, his blue eyes. His laughter and touch. The memories that can’t be drowned, his songs. His pain. Harry feels the way that Louis has always been there for him, always. And now, he’s here again, when Harry needs him most. He knows... Louis always knows. He just always knows. There’s only ever, ever been one for Harry. The memories play in slow motion, each kiss a petal unfolding, each tear a rainfall. Harry can’t, yet he also can, he wants, he must. 

He loves him. His one. 

Louis’ hand is on his chest, feeling the boom of his heartbeats. The softness of his belly presses in. It scares Harry more than all the ghosts that haunt his world. 

"You came," Harry says, simply, dumbly. 

"I‘m here," Louis says.

”You’re here.” 

Louis lays his face on Harry’s shoulder, his breath wet through the shirt.

”I’m sorry,” Louis says. He traces Harry’s arm, holding him and being held. “I know it’s not okay, just showing up.”

”Lou...” Harry pauses.

“Don’t know if it’ll ever be okay again.” 

Louis’ fingers curl against the nape of Harry’s neck, playing with his messy locks. He turns his face against Harry’s skin, taking a slow, deep breath, then gives an impulsive lick, tasting his salt and dirt. 

“Came here to tell you,” Louis says, hitching his breath and stumbling, “I do love you.” 

“I love you so much.” Harry’s words spill out. He kisses into his hair. His arms tighten around Louis, even though he knows there are no promises. “Lou.” 

“I always will, Harry. No matter what happens.” Louis pauses, his breaths coming in short bursts. “I’m not sorry to say it. It will always be you.” 

“I know.” 

“Love you.” 

“I know.” 

He’s locked in, woven into the fabric of Harry’s body and mind. He’s the one who loved Harry first. He’s the garden and the flowers. The summertime and butterflies. He’s all the mountains of the earth. Los Angeles, New York, London. Harry kisses him through his hair, mumbling his love, though they always knew. Harry would go anywhere for him.

 

 

 

 

 

thank you for reading. Xxxxx


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